Chapter 19
Ivy
There is a difference between being reckless and being brave. Reckless is jumping off a cliff without checking the water depth. Brave is jumping off the cliff knowing the water is cold, deep, and full of sharks, but doing it anyway because the person you love is waiting in the surf.
We were currently treading water with sharks. And honestly? It felt great.
We were back in Burlington.
After the dramatic subway reunion and a surprisingly decent night in a questionable Brooklyn hotel, Ben and I had driven back north. We had a mess to clean up.
Ben was driving the Jeep, one hand on the wheel, the other firmly gripping my hand on the center console. He hadn't let go of me for four hours. Every time he shifted gears, he would squeeze my fingers, as if checking I was still real.
"You ready?" he asked, glancing at me as we pulled into the parking lot of the Blackstone Athletic Center.
I looked at the building. The scene of the crime. The place where Lila had cornered me. Where Ben’s dad had bought him off. Where I had broken his heart.
A week ago, seeing this building made me want to vomit. Today? It just looked like bricks and mortar.
"I'm ready," I said. "Are you? Your dad is probably in there waiting to vaporize us."
"Let him try," Ben said, his jaw setting in that stubborn line I loved. "I have the high ground."
"You walked out on the draft, Ben. You have the 'unemployed' ground."
"Details." He winked at me. "Besides. Jax texted. Davids is still interested. Apparently, 'romantic insanity' plays well in Canada."
We got out of the car.
It was overcast, threatening rain, but I felt sunny. I was wearing my dance warm-ups and Ben’s oversized hoodie (the cropped one—I had reclaimed it). Ben was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. No jersey. No armor. Just him.
We walked toward the entrance. Hand in hand.
A few students stopped to stare. Whispers followed us. Is that them? The scandal couple?
Ben didn't flinch. He walked with his head high, pulling me close to his side. His message was clear: Look all you want. She's mine.
We reached the double doors.
"Okay," Ben said, stopping. He turned to me, smoothing a flyaway hair from my face. "Here's the plan. We walk in. We talk to Coach. We tell him the truth. No more lies."
"And your dad?"
"If he's there... I handle him. You don't have to say a word."
"I have a few words for him," I muttered. "mostly four-letter ones."
Ben laughed. "Save them. He's not worth the breath."
He kissed my forehead. "Ready, partner?"
"Ready, Captain."
We pushed open the doors.
The Office
Coach Sullivan’s office hadn't changed. Same beige walls. Same dying plant. Same tension thick enough to chew on.
But the cast of characters was different.
Coach Sullivan was behind his desk, looking like he hadn't slept in a week.
Jax was leaning against the filing cabinet, arms crossed, looking smug.
And in the guest chair, looking like a thundercloud in a bespoke suit, was Senator Sterling.
When we walked in, the room went silent.
"Well," Senator Sterling said, standing up. His voice was clipped, cold. " The prodigal son returns. And he brought the anchor."
I bristled. Ben squeezed my hand.
"Her name is Ivy," Ben said calmly. "And we're here to clear the air."
"Clear the air?" The Senator scoffed. "Benjamin, you walked out of the National Championship celebration. You humiliated me. You humiliated the program. Davids was ready to sign you, and you vanished to chase a girl!"
"I didn't vanish," Ben said. "I prioritized. And Davids called me this morning. He's still interested. Turns out, he likes players who have a spine. Unlike you."
The Senator purpled. "Watch your tone. I am still your father. I still control your funding."
"No," Ben said, stepping forward. "You don't. I'm twenty-one. I have my own bank account. And as of today, I'm declining your 'help.' All of it. The tuition, the car payments, the influence peddling. Keep your money."
"You can't afford to live without me," his father sneered. "You have no job. No contract."
"I have a job offer from the university clinic," Ben said. "Assistant Physical Therapist. It pays minimum wage, but it covers rent. And if the Montreal thing works out... well, I'll be fine."
He looked at me.
"And Ivy has a job offer too. Teaching at the local studio. We'll make it work. We'll eat ramen. We'll live in a shoebox. But we'll be free."
Coach Sullivan cleared his throat.
"Ben," he said, his voice gruff. "About the investigation. The academic fraud."
"It's bull, Coach," Jax interrupted from the corner. "I was there. They studied. Ivy quizzed him on ligaments. It was the most boring 'affair' in history. If anyone should be investigated, it's Tank for thinking the earth is flat."
Coach Sullivan looked at Jax, then at Ben.
"And the photo?" Coach asked. "The... compromised position?"
"We were kissing," Ben said, not an ounce of shame in his voice. "Behind a building. We're adults. It was consensual. And frankly, it's none of the university's business."
"It's a violation of the conduct code!" the Senator shouted. "Moral turpitude!"
"Moral turpitude?" Ben laughed. "Dad, you bribed the athletic director. You bought my roster spot. You blackmailed a student into quitting a showcase. You want to talk about morals?"
Ben turned to Coach Sullivan.
"Coach. You know me. You know how hard I work. If you want to suspend me for loving my girlfriend, go ahead. Take the title away. Erase the record. But I'm not apologizing for it. And I'm not leaving her."
Coach Sullivan looked at Ben. He looked at the fire in his eyes. The defiance.
Slowly, a smile spread across the old coach's face.
"You got grit, Sterling," he muttered. "I'll give you that."
He looked at the Senator.
"Bill. Get out of my office."
The Senator froze. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. This is my team. These are my players. And frankly, I'm tired of you treating my locker room like your campaign headquarters. Get out."
"You can't talk to me like that! I'm a donor!"
"Take your donation and shove it," Sullivan said. "We just won a National Championship. Applications are up twenty percent. We don't need your money anymore."
The Senator stared at him. Then he looked at Ben.
He saw the united front. He saw that his leverage was gone.
He sneered. He straightened his tie.
"Fine," he spat. "Throw it all away. See if I care. But don't come crawling back when you fail."
He stormed past us. He didn't look at me.
The door slammed shut.
Silence filled the room. But this time, it wasn't heavy. It was light. Clean.
"So," Coach Sullivan sighed, rubbing his temples. "Montreal, huh?"
"Davids wants a meeting on Monday," Ben confirmed.
"Good. Don't screw it up. And Sterling?"
"Yeah, Coach?"
"Keep the girl. She seems to have good aim with a bagel."
We laughed.
We walked out of the office.
Jax high-fived Ben. "That was epic. Dad looked like he swallowed a lemon."
"Thanks for the backup, Fitz," Ben said.
"Anytime. Now, can we please go get food? I'm starving. And Tank is trying to cook pasta in a kettle again."
"Go ahead," Ben said. "We'll catch up."
Jax winked at me and jogged down the hall.
Ben turned to me. He looked lighter. Younger. The weight of the world was gone.
"We did it," he whispered.
"We did it," I agreed. "We slew the dragon."
"And the evil king."
"And we kept the ring." I held up my hand, the silver band glinting in the fluorescent light.
Ben grinned. He grabbed my waist and pulled me close.
"Now," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous rumble that made my toes curl. "About that victory celebration..."
"The Jeep?"
"No. The apartment. My bed. The door locked."
"Lead the way, Captain."
The Apartment
We didn't make it to the bed immediately.
We stumbled through the front door of the Ice Box, ignoring the chaos of the boys in the living room, and practically ran up the stairs to the attic.
Ben unlocked his door, kicked it open, and then slammed it shut, locking the deadbolt with a finality that echoed in my chest.
He turned to me.
The look in his eyes wasn't just hungry. It was worshipful. It was a look that said You are mine, and I am yours, and nothing else matters.
"Come here," he breathed.
I didn't walk. I leaped.
I jumped into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. He caught me effortlessly, groaning as our bodies collided. He walked us backward until his back hit the door, pinning me there.
His mouth found mine.
This wasn't the desperate, tear-filled kiss of the subway. This was pure joy. It was laughter and relief and heat.
"I missed you," he mumbled against my lips, kissing my jaw, my neck. "Three weeks. It felt like three years."
"I missed you too," I gasped, burying my hands in his hair. "I missed your stupid face. I missed your smell."
"My smell?" He laughed against my throat. "Gym bag and regret?"
"Cedar and trouble," I corrected.
He carried me to the bed. He laid me down gently, as if I were made of glass. He hovered over me, bracing his weight on his elbows, just looking at me.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. He traced my face with a trembling hand. "I was so scared I’d never see you look at me like this again."
"Like what?"
"Like you trust me. After everything I did... I didn't deserve it."
"You earned it," I said softly, echoing his words from the locker room all those weeks ago. "You came back. You fought for us."
"I'll always fight for us," he vowed.
He lowered his head and kissed me. It was slow. Deep. Devotional.
"Take it off," I whispered, tugging at his t-shirt. "I want to see you."
He sat back and pulled the shirt over his head.
I looked at him. The broad shoulders. The defined abs. The blackout tattoo on his left arm.
I reached out and touched the ink.
"It's not a void," I reminded him. "It's armor."
"No," he shook his head, taking my hand and placing it over his heart. "This is the armor. You."
He leaned down and kissed my stomach, right through the fabric of my leggings.
"Let's get these off," he murmured.
He stripped me slowly. It wasn't frantic. We had all the time in the world. He kissed every inch of skin he revealed. My knees. My thighs. The scar on my ankle from ballet.
"Perfect," he whispered against the scar. "Battle wounds."
When we were finally skin to skin, the sensation was overwhelming. It felt like coming home after a long war.
He moved over me, settling his hips between my legs.
"Ivy," he said, his eyes locking onto mine. "Tell me what you want."
"You," I said. "Just you. Inside me."
"Say it," he commanded softly. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," I promised. "Always."
He entered me.
It was slow. Smooth. A perfect slide of heat and fullness.
I gasped, arching my back. It felt right. It felt inevitable.
He started to move.
It wasn't about domination this time. It wasn't about control. It was about connection. Every thrust was a question: Are you with me? And every response of my body was an answer: Yes.
"I love you," he whispered with every stroke. "I love you. I love you."
"I love you," I cried back, wrapping my legs tighter around him.
The rhythm built. It wasn't the frantic, jagged pace of our first time. It was a rolling, powerful wave. It carried us both.
He watched my face the whole time. He watched the flush rise on my chest. He watched my eyes roll back.
"Let go," he urged. "I've got you. I'm right here."
And I did.
I let go of everything. The fear. The anger. The pressure of the solo. The weight of my father.
I shattered into a million pieces of light.
And Ben was there to catch every single one.
He followed me moments later, his body shuddering against mine, his groan echoing in the quiet room.
We lay there for a long time. Tangled in the sheets. Sweaty. Happy.
The sun started to peek through the skylight. The rain had stopped.
Ben rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. He traced circles on my stomach.
"So," he said, his voice lazy and satisfied. "Montreal."
"Montreal," I agreed. "They speak French there."
"Oui."
"I don't speak French."
"You're a fast learner. And besides... dance is a universal language."
I smiled. "Are we really doing this? Moving to Canada? Leaving everything behind?"
"We're not leaving everything," he said. "We're taking the important stuff."
"Like what?"
"Like us. And my espresso machine. And your pointe shoes."
"And the bagel shop loyalty card?"
"Essential."
He kissed my nose.
"What about Lila?" I asked suddenly. The memory of her threat still stung.
Ben’s expression darkened for a second, then cleared.
"Forget Lila. She got the solo. Let her have it. She has to live with knowing she didn't earn it. She has to live with being... her."
"That's true," I mused. "Being Lila seems like punishment enough."
"Exactly. And you? You're going to open your own studio. You're going to teach kids who actually love to dance, not just kids who want to win trophies. You're going to be great."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I'll just be a hockey wife. Sit in the stands, drink wine, and yell at the ref."
"Please don't yell at the ref," he groaned. "I get enough penalties as it is."
"No promises."
I snuggled closer to him.
"Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we going to be okay?"
He pulled me tight against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat. Strong. Steady.
"We're going to be better than okay, Princess," he said. "We're going to be legends."
I closed my eyes.
I believed him.
Outside, the world was still chaotic. My dad was still angry. The media was still buzzing. The future was uncertain.
But in here? In the attic of the Ice Box?
Everything was perfect.
We had survived the ice. We had survived the fire.
And now?
Now we just had to live.
I fell asleep with a smile on my face, dreaming of snow, French cafes, and a golden retriever named Stanley.
This wasn't the end. It was just the face-off.
And we were ready to play.